


Weight of Carved Stone

by Sensabo



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26114827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensabo/pseuds/Sensabo
Summary: It was something so small, so simple that struck him. Like a pebble tossed into the river, the weight of those words sunk deep and took root in a place so recently hollowed out.There's a camaraderie to be found, in the escape -- in the hope.[one shot collections]
Relationships: Sisyphus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 85





	1. Linked Chains

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here to feed myself once again because I have yet to find a single dish in this Hell Kitchen that serves anything with Sisyphus and Zag -- which is a goddamn CRIME bc I know I'm not the only one starving. short small meal for myself and anyone else starving. I plan to explore the conversations and relationship between them in later chapters where I can.
> 
> * * *

The shackle weighs heavy in his hands, the dull metal a biting cold against his skin.

An odd feeling, one that sinks into his lungs and presses against his heart -- carves a space out in his chest to leave him hollow and chilled in a land burning and boiling with heat. Asphodel churns around him, the lava hot and hotter still in this stifling air but Zagreus remains where he collapsed on the too warm ground, metal in hand and sword just a breath out of reach.

He should go. Keep moving. Get to the surface.

He knows this. Knows that if he lingers too long in these chambers the hydra will recover and all seven heads will slither from the lava with vengeance burning in their empty sockets and death on their fangs.

He knows he cannot linger.

But his body is tired, his wounds deep.

The bleeding has stopped, mostly. Probably.

Hard to tell. Everything is so damn hot and boiling, the numbness of blood loss and pain just fades to white noise with the beat of his pulsing vision. The red and black in the corners of his sight seem to creep steadily inward, because he was pretty sure Asphodel was brighter than this. Hm, yeah that's a bad sign. For sure.

The metal in his hands clinks, a sharp sound, as he turns it this way and that.

A gift, this strange thing. One he never really stopped to stare at too closely until now -- and he might as well, until he found the energy to continue on or he bled out and wound up back at the House.

Sisyphus gave it to him, as thanks for a bottle of nectar. There was a certain weight to it, and not just the power it carried that helped him through more than one battle. A tale had forged itself into the metal, carved in by the chips and cracks splitting the shackle -- a tale Zagreus found himself wondering.

Sisyphus, oddly, did not speak too much of himself. Breadcrumbs, that’s all the man would offer, with a smile and gentle words. Bits and pieces or a whole, too glazed over and far distant from any meaningful details. The questions came to him, moreso in the beginning and in the quiet between rooms. Like now, with his fingers against the cold metal and the power sturdy and unyielding beneath his fingertips.

How had Sisyphus broken this? Was it during an escape? When he tricked his Father Hades? Or was it after, when Bouldy entered the picture and chained the man to his fate? 

“Who are you really?” 

The words left him, more a sigh heavy with exhaustion than anything else. 

Questions upon questions. Why _did_ Sisyphus deign to help him? Why go out of his way when the Furies were already set upon him as punishment? Why lie when Thanatos or Meg came looking for the Prince? Why did he always have a small stash of offerings for him every single time their paths crossed? How did he stay so positive, so happy in the face of his fate?

How… _how_ ….?

But he never asks, and like the wounds and scars from every escape attempt Zagreus ever made, they wash away into the red, red blood. 

Zagreus forces himself to rise with a groan and more than one wound reopening. He’s bleeding again, but the sight of blood is nothing new, especially not his own. The world tilts off kilter for a moment as he steadies himself and Alecto’s sneer of _“Red Blood”_ rings in his ears. 

The shattered shackle in his hands clanks, a rough sound that grinds her voice into the dust. In her place a memory of Sisyphus rises. Words Zagreus still carried and cherished;

_“I just want you to know, in case you make it out this time, it's been a real pleasure.”_

There had been no judgement. No guilt. Just a simple hope and wish, _“I hope you make it.”_

That…. That meant the world to Zagreus. 

The shackle weighs, heavy just as it should. Zagreus carries it with him, a quiet comfort and support. 

One foot in front of the other. 

He climbs the stairs of Asphodel to Elysium, leaving embers and blood in his wake. 

No doubt he will see the halls of the House sooner than he’d like thanks to his current sorry state.

Which sucks. A lot. 

But it also means something else. 

Metal clinks in his free hand, the chains dangle and sway to the melody of his uneven stride.

Zagreus does not look back.


	2. A Home in Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome home" holds a certain weight when you no longer have a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm just feeding myself. If this feeds anyone else bless your heart.

The only warning was hardly a warning at all.

“Pardon me, your Highness.”

The words hardly registered to Zagreus before large, warm hands wrapped around his sides, just above the hips, and suddenly the ground was no more. The cold stones of Tartarus fell away and his heart must have plummeted down to the burning soles of his feet. Something twisted in empty space left by his heart’s descent — a wounded something that recoiled the instant he was touched.

Touch was pain. It was the whistling hiss of a barbed whip flaying flesh. It was the shattering crunch of the hydra’s fangs snapping, rending limbs from him. It was the heel of an Elysium soldier grinding in beside the wound as they yank the spear from his gut. It was the burn of bile and poison in his veins from the Satyrs near the surface.

Touch was cruel. Visceral in its intensity.

Lately, anyway.

But no gaping wounds or blinding pain accompanied this touch. It lasted only a moment, the window of a breath, and Sisyphus’s hands on him were light with a faint tremor in his fingertips. Startling, really, how easily the large man hoisted the young prince up. Zagreus knew Sisyphus had to be strong after pushing Bouldy for countless years upon years but it still startled him.

And yes, stung a little too.

No amount of blood or death could break his pride, after all.

”Hide, Prince Z.” Sisyphus’ voice barely a whisper as he held the Prince up, his usual smile replaced by a tight frown.

It was this expression, so rare on the other man, that sowed urgency into Zagreus’s movements. He felt, rather than saw, the opening in the wall nestled in the shadow of a pillar and closer to the ceiling than not. There was only enough space to crawl, really -- and barely that. But he let Sisyphus support him as he tucked first his feet (burning and bright as they were, best to hide those in the deeper shadows), and then shimmied backwards into the opening until the shadows swallowed him whole.

Gratitude flashed bright in Sisyphus’s gaze before he quickly ducked away and returned to Bouldy’s side. Those large hands brushed the rough side of the boulder and -- in a movement that seemed frighteningly calculated -- Sisyphus flicked his wrist. Blood, bright and bold, blossomed across his fingertips.

The words died in Zagreus’s throat just as the air pressure shifted and popped, shivering a muted green with the sheer weight of presence.

_Thanatos._

“Slacking off again,” the chthonic god’s voice, sharp and bitingly cold, cut through the tension still visible and rolling in the room. He hovered above the cold stone floor, hood pulled up and scythe readied at his side. “I thought I warned you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Zagreus pressed himself into the shadows. Thanatos was a _friend_. But so was Sisyphus. He couldn’t exactly expose himself now, not when Sisyphus would be the one punished for it.

The tall man simply bowed his head slightly, more a show of supplication than anything else. “Afraid I’m not sure what you mean, Sir.”

“Do not play coy with me.”

The air in the room crackled, sick with a slight twinge of green.

Sisyphus pressed his lips together in thought for a moment before he offered a smile -- the warmth of it didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you speaking of the Prince, Sir? Haven’t seen him myself since last you stopped by.”

Thanatos scowled (an expression that surely was permanently etched into his face). “Oh? Then why do the Shades report differently?”

“My lord, I’m sure they will say anything to be spared your blade.”

A scoff, sharp and humorless. “And you would not?”

Bloodied hands rose palm up in offering, a twisted and tired weight upon Sisyphus’s smile. “I have no need to lie when my hands are full with the weight as is. Slipped out of my hands, it did.”

There was something in Sisyphus’s voice that seemed…. different to Zagreus. Sisyphus still spoke in that light, uplifting intonation but… there was something. A tone -- a note to it that rang hollow, nothing like how he sounded when the two of them chatted. The more Zagreus listened, the emptier it sounded.

The air seemed to hiss, shuddering as Thanatos quietly growled. “Then that stash of goods behind you is what? For you? A bribe for the Furies?”

Zagreus’s heart sank. Sisyphus always kept something for him, just in case they ran into each other. Coins, food, crystalized darkness -- all offered freely, wrapped in the gentle kindness of _I hope you make it, Prince Z._

“Oh no, My Lord, the Furies aren’t one for bribes, no Sir.” Without missing a beat Sisyphus replied. “Trade them with the Shades, I do. Just for a little chat and company is all -- being friendly with the neighbors.”

“You’re not here to play house, you’re here to **work** and I suggest you get to it.” The air shifted once more, sick and green as Thanatos turned to leave. “Stay away from the Prince, or the Furies’ lashings will be a blessing in comparison.”

With a sound that rang too similar to bones snapping and mixing with the sound of thunder, Thanatos vanished. Green muted and faded, the tension in the air dissipating with all the weight of a heaved sigh.

Even Sisyphus rolled his shoulders and idly flicked the blood from his fingers. The smile he tossed up to the shadowed corner was warm and gentle. “It’s safe now, Prince Z.”

Zagreus crawled out of hiding and nimbly dropped to the ground. “Sorry about that, Sir.” Guilt, perhaps -- maybe that was the name of the feeling eating at a corner of his heart. Zagreus dusted himself off, covered in dirt as he was, and tried to squash the feeling.

“Don’t you pay it any mind, your Highness.” Sisyphus busied himself with wiping the blood fully from his fingertips and gathered up the coin and darkness gems he’d collected, a faint melody hummed on his lips. Zagreus idly noted the man’s voice didn’t sound so cheerfully hollow anymore, now that Thanatos left.

Guilt.

“Why…--” The words died in the Prince’s throat.

That had to be it.

Sisyphus half turned to face Zagreus, brow furrowed but that ever present smile on his lips. “Something the matter?”

“No,” Zagreus frowned slightly. “I just don’t want to make your situation worse. I mean, are you sure you’re ok, helping me like this?” His gaze dropped to the gifts cradled in those large, scarred hands. Wounds upon wounds, scars yawned and stretched over Sisyphus’s shoulders and Zagreus feared to imagine what the man’s back looked like. “I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, and I do keep the Sisters busy, but… are you ok? Is this _really_ ok with you?”

Guilt.

That had to be it.

Guilt and a whole lot of blood.

Even now, it left a nasty taste in his mouth. His blood, the blood of people he wanted to still call friends -- it didn’t matter, it all left something bitter in his mouth that remained even as he climbed to the surface. If there came a time where Sisyphus found helping Zagreus wasn’t worth the pound of flesh it cost him every time, what would the Prince do? How could he fault the man, knowing what the Furies did to him? Would they still be able to talk like this? Or, like the House, would he--

“Now see here, Prince Z,” large hands grasped both his shoulders, warm and startling how much it seemed to dwarf his stature in comparison.

Sisyphus’s touch was kind. Warm, without a hint of pain.

Again that faint tremor in the man’s fingertips. “I want to help you. I-- oh.” Sisyphus blinked, seemed to realize something and lifted his hands. “Apologies, your Highness.”

A chill seemed to settle upon his shoulders. Zagreus chuckled, reached out and held one of the man’s hands that hovered, uncertain in the air. “You’re fine, Sir. Just startled me is all. Not a lot of people lately come at me with good intent.”

“I know the feeling, Prince Z,” his reply was a quiet murmur as his free hand rubbed the back of his neck. Zagreus thought he saw the tip of a scar that curved around from the back of his neck. “But to continue, I don’t mind helpin’ you, your Highness. I enjoy our chats.”

A small smile found its way to Zagreus’s features. The hand in his still trembled slightly.

“Besides, I--” the man’s words and smile both faltered, replaced with something the Prince had no name for. “I no longer remember what it’s like to long for something so deeply like you do. I hope you make it, Prince Z, I _truly_ do. I want you to find whatever… whoever you are looking for.”

_Oh._

“Until you do, you’re welcome here any time.”

There’s something soft, fragile in its warmth, that fills a space in the Prince -- fills the hole left gaping and wanting. The hole that only grew with each escape attempt, with each cold word or look tossed his way. The hole that shuddered and clawed larger with Meg’s words that rang too true -- _You’re not welcome here anymore_.

She had been right. She was right.

But not here. Not here.

The words formed and choked on themselves, Zagreus found it difficult to look at his companion before him. So he bowed his head and clutched at the hand in his, which gently returned the gesture. When he found his voice, it was pure as flame and just as vulnerable as a candle in the wind.

“Thank you.”


	3. Wishing Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stars will guide you home, so make a wish -- bring me back to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sisyphus is touch starved thanks for coming.

_These cannot be stars._

The thought flares, brands itself across his mind as the darkness swallows him. It’s a fleeting thought, but searing in the way it sinks into his soul. Of this, he is sure.

Darkness surrounds Master Chaos’s dwelling, one could argue that it is the foundation itself. How different from Nyx’s darkness it was, the way it swelled with something older than Zagreus even had a name for. It coiled with a weight that pressed against him like fanged jaws upon his jugular, this primordial darkness that shuddered with what felt like a breath. There was something in this darkness, but Zagreus found it suited the strange Master deity. Chaos was odd, different in their strangeness, but not once had Zagreus ever felt any ill will from them. Just as with their boons, there was a balance to the darkness, to the weight of it -- perhaps that was the light he saw in it.

But that light in the dark did not resemble stars.

No, could not.

This he knew in his very bones.

Not because the prince had seen them for himself, no.

But because Sisyphus described them to him.

And even Master Chaos’s darkness could not compare to the beauty the man spoke of that graced the surface.

Zagreus carries those words with him, lets them unfurl in his chest and take root in the hollow spaces he carefully chose to ignore. Images flit across his mind, what such a thing could look like, as he cleaves his way through the shades barring his path. Of course he knew of the sun, pulled by Helios, and of the moon through Selene. But he had never seen either the celestial bodies or the gods that reigned over them. They were mere words on parchment to him, one line among many that blurred into the next under his Father’s disdained gaze.

A shade groans as it twists and vanishes in a mist around the tip of his spear, soon to follow is the rumble of stone against stone signifying the chamber doors unlocking. Zagreus has to shake his head to force himself to focus. He can’t afford to daydream like this, it will cost him too dearly -- he won’t make it to the surface if he gets cocky and lets down his guard.

Failing meant returning back to the House, and that….

That got harder with each bloodied failure carved into his soul. Not because it was harder to leave, oh no. Rather, it was the looks he received as the blood poured from him.

They could judge all they liked. He was getting out of here. He was leaving one way or another.

The door shuddered open before him and clutching the spear perhaps too tightly, Zagreus crossed the threshold. And the next room --

\-- is all to familiar.

Minus a dear friend.

Sisyphus’s … is it right it call it the man’s room? -- Zagreus wasn’t sure, though “cell” had a bad taste to it. Regardless, the large room yawned empty, devoid of both the large man and the larger Bouldy. To his left the carved path for the boulder stretched on and gradually up into darkness.

Zagreus froze, all but pressed against the stone door slammed shut behind him.

Had he come while the Furies were here? Was one of the sisters here now, pushing Sisyphus further up the slope? A faint scent of blood lingered in the air but the prince could no longer tell if it came from him or…

Blood. Blood and wounds upon endless scars, red blooming and staining. Red, red, red, bubbling over lips and staining worn green. A voice wheezes in his mind, cruel in its mimicry of the man, “ _Hide, Prince Z…_ ”

His body reacts without thought, spurred by the roots in his heart -- by the kindness and words that rooted and sowed in a cold corner of his heart only Sisyphus seemed content to garden.

It doesn’t matter what punishment awaits him for interfering, or what wounds he would have to carry with him onto Asphodel. If it keeps Sisyphus safe for now, if it spares them both from watching flesh rend and scream open in the wake of the whip’s path then Zagreus would fight.

Spear close, held with practiced ease, Zagreus is over the rim of crushed stone that marked the end bed of Boudly. The incline is gradual, barely noticeable but present all the same, and the prince bolts up it like a lightning bolt to the ground. The entrance had yet to fade into darkness before the ground trembles.

Zagreus stumbles to a stop.

He… does not know this feeling nor this sound. It’s not a shade, he’s sure. Which… leaves --

Pure instinctual reaction has the prince pressed flat against the wall, tucked behind a pillar just as the trembling becomes unbearable. In that moment, something very large and crushingly fast stampedes past him down, down the carved path in the floor. When Bouldy hits the bed lip at the foot of the incline, the room itself shudders and dust tumbles from the pillar Zagreus pressed himself against.

Well, that was close and none too pleasant.

_But Sisyphus?_

Zagreus tears his attention from the boulder and casts his gaze further up the incline shrouded in shadow. The scent of blood was stronger here.

Before he could take a step, continue the charge up the incline with weapon ready, the soft sound of footfalls caught his attention. Faint, the muffled kind of scuff when someone drags their feet, too exhausted to do anything but chafe along the stone floor. Shadows shift and peel away as a figure gradually emerges.

A familiar figure with an unfamiliar expression.

Gone is the warmth and cheer Zagreus has come to associate with the man. Instead his expression has hardened with a scowl at the ground, bringing out the rough edges to his jaw. Sisyphus’s hair was a tussled mess, half plastered to his scalp from sweat, a sheen shone on his skin and the thick shackles around his wrists both. Blood coated his palms and fingers.

“Sisyphus….”

A whisper. That’s all it had been. But it stopped the man in his tracks, the rattle of his chains disquietingly loud in the space between them.

“Y… your Highness?” The shock was palpable in Sisyphus’s voice. “What are you…?”

“Are you alright, Sir?” Zagreus is at his side in a flash, one hand hovering over the man’s as if hesitant to inspect the damage for fear of inflicting more pain. “You’re hurt, how can I help? Should I--”

“Hold a moment,” Bewildered, Sisyphus inched back, confusion plain on his face as he held up his hands (the open sight of which only seemed to further send the prince into a worried frenzy). “It might not be best to stay too long, Prince Z--”

“Is she still here?”

“No--”

“Then it’s fine, right?” Zagreus shifted his spear to lean against him and rest against the curve of his neck so as to free both hands to gently cradle one of Sisyphus’s bloodied larger ones (which tensed and flinched away at first touch). “She won’t be back for a while.”

For all the blood he’d seen and spilled, the sight and feel of the man’s left a chilled ache in his heart the prince did not like one bit. Carefully, he ran his thumb over the man’s hand, inspecting the damage. Sisyphus’s hands were covered in cuts and scrapes, some deep and others shallow -- all from Bouldy no doubt. Then that leaves--

Zagreus did not look up when he spoke, “Let me see your back.”

It was impossible to miss the way Sisyphus flinched, his hand would have pulled from the prince’s grasp had he not held it carefully firm enough. The man’s brow furrowed, his voice unfamiliarly uneven, “Prince Z, I--”

“Let me see.”

Ignoring the man’s protests, Zagreus let go of Sisyphus’s hand and placed one hand on the man’s bicep -- to turn him or hold him still as Zag walked around perhaps -- but froze as his fingertips came away wet.

Bloodied. The crimson a glaring sight upon his skin.

Sisyphus sighed, a heavy and soul weary sound as he stood stock still, gaze downcast to the blood on the Prince’s fingers. He remained still even as Zagreus silently walked around him to view his back, even when he heard the prince’s sharp intake of breath.

Sisyphus knew it was a nasty sight, his back. Always was. The countless wounds, crimson and deep as they yawned open to mark the paths each time the whip fell. Blood everywhere, he could feel it oozing and weeping from the wounds, soaking the tattered remains of his clothes.

Few things Sisyphus hid and preferred not to show. This was one, especially before the prince.

At least it was Megaera today. Days with Alecto are worse by far.

Zagreus said nothing, but his gaze was shimmering with something as he walked around and carefully placed his hand under Sisyphus’s forearm, afraid to touch his palm and unable to touch the man’s wrist with the thick shackles. Again, the man tensed at the slightest touch.

Guilt. Sorrow, perhaps. There were many things Zagreus could name the lump in his throat, the blade in his chest.

But he preferred not to. Not now.

“Your Highness?” Sisyphus’s voice was soft, prodding in its concern as he followed along behind Zagreus down the slope.

It took a few tries, swallowing past whatever lodged itself in his throat to get the words out. “Please let me help. Let me do this much, at least.”

In silence, strained with concern but comfortable in familiar company, they descended the slope and stopped beside Bouldy, who rested as always at the bottom of the incline. As if it had never moved. Zagreus motioned for Sisyphus to sit, which he did with a groan and leaning heavily against Bouldy.

“You really don’t have to do this--”

“I want to.”

Sisyphus heaved another sigh, almost curled on himself as he sat hunched over, wounds weeping and bleeding still.

Zagreus stood behind him, hesitant and unsure. It’s not like he had any healing magic or abilities. Wounds inflicted in this realm were injuries on the soul itself, seeing as the body is lost in death and “death” down here is only temporary. How fast a soul healed varied on many things, primarily being Age and Power -- gods as beings with older and powerful souls compared to those of mortals could obviously recover faster (sometimes instantly). But mortal souls? The shades Zagreus cut down each time he climbed the tower? Those shades fell into a hibernation of sorts, deep into the River, until their souls recovered from the damage and could wander the halls once again.

Sisyphus had been mortal, though yes perhaps there is a trace of divinity in him that held his soul together better than other mortals. But the Furies did their job well, flaying open the soul until the tattered remains were _just_ enough to keep the man here still. After all, what punishment would it be if the Furies pushed him past the breaking point and into a rest in the River? No, better to toe the boundary, right on the edge, to the point where the soul bleeds and bleeds but never flickers out.

The knowledge of the logic made Zagreus ill.

The most he could do, perhaps, is use some of his power to fill the holes left in the man’s soul until it healed on its own. Whether that would speed up the healing process or just numb the pain, he wasn’t sure. But it was something and that was all he had at the moment.

“Um, pardon me, Sir.”

The only warning Zagreus gave before reaching out to brush his fingers against an angry wound that cut across the man’s broad shoulders. Warmth flooded his fingertips, his power concentrated to a fine point as he traced the first wound.

Sisyphus’s reaction was visceral. The shudder that wracked him the moment Zagreus touched him had the man curling even further upon himself, large hands clenched tight in his lap and jaw firmly shut.

“Sorry but hold still,” Zagreus softly pleaded as one hand shifted and held Sisyphus’s shoulder while the other continued on.

It must have felt strange, alien perhaps. To feel the power of another being, another soul brush against yours in such a way. The warmth, the heat of it must be foriegn. It probably did not help that Zagreus naturally ran hot in well, everything about him -- from his feet to his touch to his power, even to aspects of his personality. He was a flame, sometimes of a candle and others of a pyre.

Beneath his touch, Sisyphus trembled and silent he remained, curved and tense.

The mere sight tore at Zagreus.

Blood dried, flecked away beneath the heat and power left in the wake of Zagreus’s touch, but the wounds remain raw and angry. Zagreus could see now, however, the skin between the scars and wounds. Something dusted Sisyphus’s shoulders and scattered down his back.

_Oh, these are…_

It finally clicked in Zagreus’s mind.

“Do you remember when you told me about the stars on the surface?”

A hum served as his only reply, layered with the weight of whatever thoughts distracted the man. Still he tensed and flinched with each touch. A faint color dusted his cheeks.

Zagreus continued in spite of, or perhaps because of. His fingers lightly brushed over Sisyphus’s broad shoulders and again he felt the muscles beneath his fingertips tense like a taunt bow. “They must look like this, the stars I mean.”

His fingers idly connected patterns between the unmarred cloak of freckles upon the man’s skin and Sisyphus literally choked.

“I-“ Sisyphus coughed, almost curling away from the prince enough to be a round boulder on his own, “Beg pardon?!”

“You don’t think so?” The smile on the prince’s lips titled just enough to tease as he traced another pattern, fascinated.

The dusting of pink on the man’s face spread to the tips of his ears now — and _oh_ , wasn’t **that** an interesting sight?

Sisyphus grumbled, ears bright red and gaze averted to anywhere and everywhere but the grinning prince behind him. ”I hardly think it would please the stars to be compared to an old man’s freckles...”

The prince’s laughter filled the room, the warmth and light of it in the cold Tartarus had Sisyphus leaning in even if only a fraction.

* * *

Darkness.

Around him, overhead, seeping into his vision.

But it didn’t matter.

Nor did the pain pulsing through him from the wound in his gut that yawned and gaped, seeping blood into the cold white beneath him (which just made him wet and colder). Nor the barbed words of his Father.

“You never learn, _boy_.” Cold, unloving as ever.

But he did. He _did_ learn. And _oh_ , what a sight.

The sky above -- because what else could that be but the **sky**? -- was truly a sight. High above a black sky swirled, alight with light soft and gentle. Even as the darkness encroached the corners of his vision and winked out the lights one by one, he could not turn away.

He had been right.

The darkness swelled with the chill as the blood claimed him, but his heart soared still.

Because he was right.

_The stars truly do look just like you._


	4. Imprint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (belated) v1.0 everyone! I hoped in vain for a Sisyphus romance but alas. So I am here once again to feed myself -- and anyone else who might enjoy a desperate meal. It's bare bones but please let me live, I'm so fuckin' possessed by these two I cry.
> 
> * * *

“You don’t like touch, do you Sir?”

A simple question, really, but one that blindsighted Sisyphus all the same.

The gifts in his hands, dark crystals and foods he managed to parley from the shades, suddenly felt heavier than Bouldy. Even the weight of the shackles on his wrist seemed more pronounced, more restrictive than usual as he stood before the waiting Prince.

Sisyphus’s hands lowered just a fraction as his gaze fell, unable to quite meet the fire-stepper’s eyes. “It…” a pause, “I have been here a long time, your Highness.”

Zagreus frowned slightly, worry coloring his expression. “I wasn’t blaming you, I …--”

It wasn’t about blame. Merely facts.

“That came out wrong. Let me try again.” A fire blazed in Zagreus’s eyes, determination as bright as the flames on his feet. The prince shifted, wided his stance and squared his shoulders.

Sisyphus blinked, bewildered and just a smidgen concerned where this was headed.

Zagreus held out both his hands, palms up and fingers spread in invitation. “I want to help you overcome your aversion.”

_What?_

Sisyphus was damn sure he heard wrong. Perhaps all those years at the receiving end of the Furies’ whip finally did him in. Maybe his hearing was going in his old age -- did that happen after death? -- too long listening to the grind of stone against stone as he forced his way uphill. Or mayhaps hallucination, then? Maybe he finally kicked the bucket for good and the Furies slipped up, sent him packing into the River to nap for a while.

A million and one thoughts screamed inside his mind but all that escaped the tall man was a quiet, “Beg pardon?”

“Look, I get it -- with the Furies and all, it’s understandable, really. And I don’t want to force this on you or anything, so just say so if I am but--”

Hesitation.

A whole lot of it, evident in the way Zagreus’s words rushed together and faded. His gaze fell to his hands that slowly curled half closed as he shifted restlessly on his feet.

Sisyphus, gentle as always, waited for the prince to find his words.

When he did, his voice was soft, quiet in the space between them and cradled in the prince’s still proffered hands. “When I helped you the other day,”

Covered in wounds and blood, flinching at the slightest movement -- a sorry sight, that.

“I realized how uncomfortable it was for you -- and perhaps that was just the pain talking but... “

Quieter, softer. Something colored the prince’s voice, fragile and delicate -- something Sisyphus had long since forgotten the name of.

“...I don’t want it to be like that between us.”

A silence hangs between them, balanced on the fractured glass of Zagreus’s words. An offering, warm and revitalizing much like the nectar and ambrosia Zagreus often brought the man. It reminded him of something -- the name of which caught in the back of his throat. That heat, gentle in the way it seeped bone deep -- so much like the sun after a storm -- he had forgotten what it felt like to be basked in such a light.

Fear. The first emotion that bubbled to the surface. After so long in the dark, little wonder. It pulled at Sisyphus’s thoughts, jumbled them together in a mess that seemed knotted horribly. Memories, faded and forgotten at best, clawed at a corner of his heart he had long since neglected. Could he even stand to unbury them, those thoughts and emotions he cast aside -- those memories of halcyon days?

Scarred hands trembled as they clutched meager gifts.

And still the silence stretched.

Too long.

Forlorn, like the smoke that curls and bows over the wick of a candle freshly extinguished, Zagreus lowered his hands and gaze both. His voice but a whisper in the space between. “Forgive me, I overstepped.”

For all his years, all his knowledge and suffering, still he lacked, it seems. Or perhaps all these years only made him better at fumbling, tripping and dropping everything he meant to hold tight. Sisyphus shook his head, a frown upon his lips. “Not at all, Prince Z. I’m just… unsure of how you mean to go about um, helping?”

“You’re up for it, then?” A flicker of hope in the young man’s tone.

“I… suppose?” Never one to say no to the prince, not after everything. But even he keenly knew the young prince was wont to get into trouble and this was not particularly a subject the man wanted…. mischief assistance with. “But really, you don’t need to go to any trouble, I--”

“No trouble at all!” Zagreus was quick to jump on the reluctant acceptance offered. He relieved Sisyphus of his offerings and tucked them beside Bouldy for now (he’d have his pick of them once they were done). “And don’t worry, we’re going to start small.”

Which meant it would grow over time and, knowing the Prince, at a fire’s pace.

Sisyphus’s large frame hunched slightly, nervous and rather uncomfortable as the Prince busied himself and fussed about to coax him to sit. When he did, Zagreus sat across from him, legs crossed and hands offered palm up between them once more.

“Just hold my hands.”

_That’s…_

The confusion must have been evident across his features as Zagreus only grinned wider.

“I’m just going to talk for a bit -- well, more like share a story I suppose? I just want to hold hands until I’m done. It’ll be short, I promise, and I won’t do anything else.”

Simple. Achingly so.

With no real reason to refuse, Sisyphus slowly reached out. This was different from offering gifts, where the brush of fingertips was a happenstance and fleeting at best. But this? This was intentional -- lingering. His hands hovered over the prince’s, unable to rest in that warmth yet neither did he pull away. This, for whatever reason, seemed more intimate -- more vulnerable -- than the man would like. Much like showing the aftermath of a visit from the Furies, this weakness of his is not something he liked to share.

Zagreus had the kindness not to close the distance. He waited with a smile and head tilted just slightly.

Chains rattled, the sound heavy as Sisyphus took a deep breath before he lightly -- just faintly -- touched his hands to the prince’s. Warmth ghosted his skin from the contact, the contrast to the biting cold of his shackles stark enough to elicit a shiver. Perhaps courage, or perhaps it was the last remnant of hope he had, that finally allowed him to rest his hands fully in the grasp of another. Too warm, like a clutching a stone that had encircled a pyre. Were other people always this warm, or was it merely the natural heat of the fire-stepping prince?

Sisyphus could not hide the tremble in his fingers, though he pressed his lips into a thin line and tried anyway.

For his part, Zagreus simply cradled the man’s larger hands, kind enough not to brush his thumbs against the back of Sisyphus’s hands. Funny, almost, how much they differed in size.

“Where to start?” He mulled, eyes closed for a brief moment in thought, brow furrowed. “Oh, Did I tell you I took up fishing?”

The words didn’t register at first. Not over the sensation of touch. “Beg pardon?”

Zagreus laughed, the sound light in the darkness that naturally thrived in Tartarus. “You’d be surprised what you can pull from the River.”

And so the story began, woven with a smile and just enough flare to be entertaining. Distracting. Zagreus was always one for a few embellishments here and there, to liven things up -- but never did he stray too far from the truth. He spoke of strange creatures he recently hooked from the River, from Tartarus and Asphodel. The knuckleheads that clattered their skull teeth and emitted a faint eerie green light as they thrashed about and how docile the Chrustacean seemed in comparison as they always seemed content to curl into Zagreus’s hands whenever he pulled them from the River.

He’d caught a Scyllascion once, too. “But that’s a story for next time,” the prince ended softly. Gently, with barely any pressure at all, he squeezed Sisyphus’s hands before slowly letting go.

A chill swept in to kiss the man’s still trembling palms and he wasn’t sure anymore if that was better…. or worse.

But he kept his silence, on that at least. Carefully, he tucked his hands into his lap, large frame still curled slightly. He nodded to the Prince who rose with all the bundled energy of a youngling who sat still for too long. “You be careful out there, Highness.”

Zagreus flashed him a grin. “You as well, Sir.”

Like a firestorm, a whirlwind of flame and chaos, he was gone.

Silence settled. Coldness returned.

Sisyphus stared at the closed chamber doors through which the prince left for a long while, unmoving.

“What have I gotten myself into, Bouldy?”

Beside him, the large stone watched on and offered no answers -- only the chill that came natural with stone.

A coldness he knew all too well.

His hands no longer trembled when he rose and placed them upon the rough surface of his friend. Only just faintly, did the warmth of the prince’s touch remain.

If he had to be honest, he more than half hoped the prince would have forgotten this arrangement -- or that he made it out of this realm, finally. But such was not what the Fates wanted, for the prince returned again, with hands outstretched and a tale on his lips. Sisyphus, beyond the point of refusing the prince, acquiesced and sat as before with his hands in Zagreus’s.

The heat from the young man’s touch still shook him every time. Still his fingers trembled ever slightly.

But were it not for these fleeting visits from the prince, Sisyphus highly doubted he would have ever remembered another person could be warm. Rocks and stone only provided so much and there was never any warmth to be found when his own blood ran like serpents down his back from wounds upon wounds.

But this? _This…._

There is a name for it, this fragile delicate thing.

But he dared not dwell on it, let alone name it. He tucked it away, buried in the graves he kept in his heart of people whose faces and names he could no longer remember but still knew he once cherished.

Zagreus’s tales grew in length, slowly but surely. He spoke of all manner of creatures he managed to pull from the River, of the wretches he fought in Tartarus. He spoke of Asphodel -- of its blistering heat even the prince’s feet could not stand, of the strange chambers and the dead that called them home, of a woman named Eurydice and her songs that echoed long after he left her dwellings. Up to Elysium, whose hallowed halls Sisyphus would never see, the prince spoke with soft wonder at the green that grew there, the water that sparkled in fountains, how the River seemed a brighter and softer color. When he told of the heroes there, a small wonder wove his every word -- until he spoke of Theseus, that is. Some bad blood, there, it seemed.

Zagreus was kind enough never to speak of Meg or Thanatos, despite his friendships with them.

But he spoke of everything else. Of the House, of the investments he poured into the contractor just to piss off his Lord Father. He spoke of Lady Nyx and her guidance, of Achilles and his wisdom, of Hypnos and his quick quips, or Dusa and her flustered but diligent bustling about the House.

The prince was full of stories, of memories.

It filled the hole, empty and gaping, where _something_ used to be. Time, pain, and more than a little despair had whittled away many memories of Sisyphus’s own. To hear the prince talk, so full of life, it stirred something in him. Soothed an ache he long ignored.

But now it throbbed, an open festered wound weeping.

So he listened, anchored by the warmth from Zagreus’s touch.

His hands no longer trembled in the prince’s hands, a feat which surprised him if he stopped to think. When had that happened, he wondered idly once after the prince had left and all that remained was the ghost of his heat. Hard to say. Harder still to say when he began to find some measure of comfort when Zagreus would idly brush his thumbs over the back of his hand during his tale.

The full weight of change did not sink in until one encounter he paused to realize Zagreus did not cradle his hands but rather held them as he gently traced his fingers over the countless scars that marred the man’s hands. No pain or blood followed in the wake of the prince’s touch, only a warmth that bordered just shy of too warm. Strange, this kindness… from the son of Hades himself, no less.

When had the tale ended? How long had they sat in comfortable silence that saw Zagreus’s head bowed over Sisyphus’s hands and the man himself merely content to sit? Hard to say, harder still to break the quiet.

Fragile, delicate -- this thing between them. But warm just the same.

It was Zagreus who broke the silence first, his voice slightly hoarse -- from the long tale or… something else, perhaps. A reverence laced his words, spoken so soft Sisyphus almost missed it, “Thank you. For trusting me.”

Those words wound about his soul, nestled deep and took root in a cold little corner that lately seemed warmer in certain company.

Chains rattled as he shifted, but the weight of that sound did not matter. Nor did the endless scars upon him or the pain carved into his very soul. It all burned away in the warmth before him.

Sisyphus smiled weakly and squeezed the prince’s hands, tried to press into that heat what he could not express in words.

Only Zagreus was foolish enough to help him, to kindle hope with a foolish old man.

_Only you..._


	5. Falter [SPOILERS]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself and the taste is all the more bitter for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!!!! SPOILERS FOR CUTSCENES AFTER THE FIRST ESCAPE !!!!**
> 
> I made it out for the first time the other day and I'm still chewing on it. I know the gods view death differently but does that really dull the pain?
> 
> * * *

He didn’t notice it.

Not at first.

Oblivious, he had shouldered it with all the blind urgency that follows in the hollow wake of panic -- of pain. Down, down, down it was buried. Beneath the ache in his limbs, the too deep lingerings of fatalities washed away in the blood -- buried and ground underfoot beneath hurried steps. As such, he paid it about as much attention as he did any other wound: which is to say none at all.

He’d died enough times by now to know how to push through the static of hurts.

But in truth, _this_ was not _that_.

Zagreus was nothing if not foolish in his stubbornness at the best of times.

So no, he did not notice.

Not when the River washed from him, red and warm. Not when the sharp voice of his father fell upon him like molten lashes. Not when the whispers, confused and a few more than a little barbed, crawled through the halls in his wake. Nor when the window yawned a different hue, tainted with a pact. Or when the shades rose and fell upon him with renewed strength.

No.

It’s not until he is deep in Tartarus, covered in too many wounds earned from distracted swings and delayed reactions. It’s not until he reaches that familiar wide room, large silhouette nestled against the incline and that gentlemanly figure busying beside it. It’s not until Sisyphus smiles, kindness wrapped around his voice and the motion of his small wave, “Hey there, Prince.”

Something about the sight -- or perhaps it’s the man’s voice, even -- snaps the fatal crack into place.

It comes, all at once. A serpent, coiling and twisting in his throat, in his heart and lungs -- burning, burning, burning.

The _realization_.

The room blurs and it’s not until he tries to speak that Zagreus realizes why. He chokes, falters, voice weak and trembling in the too wide room and the space between them, “I....”

Sisyphus is beside him in an instant, large hands light and gentle on his shoulders as the man leans down. “Prince, what’s wrong?” Though his voice is soft, it doesn’t reach, not fully.

Not with the weight finally pressing down on Zagreus. “My mother,” the words tumble from his lips like the fires of Asphodel, burning and fast in a way that takes away his breath. “I found her… I finally… but I… _I_ \--!”

It hurts. Burns in a way he can’t name. Stains him in a fashion colder than his father’s blood on his hands. Memories flood him, heavy with weight as he finally sees. Sisyphus’s hands are on him, his shoulders, brushing the hair from his face, soft words of concern to soothe -- but doesn’t really register. None of it does.

Not when he’s back on the surface, with that bone-deep cold in the air, biting at his wounds and hardening his father’s ichor on his hands. The sight of the sun, blindingly bright yet unable to warm his body as he forced himself onward. All the pain up to now had to mean something -- the escape and fallout from daring to leave the House, the blood split and poured into weapons, the vicious cycle of hope and despair as it bled from his corpse time after time -- it had to have been worth something. She had to be here.

And she was.

Framed in gold and emerald hues of things he had never seen.

Sisyphus’s hand cups his cheek, and though he feels its warmth he cannot hear the man’s words.

Instead he feels his mother’s hand on his cheek, sees her wavering, tearful smile. “ _You died, you… you **died** ,_” she had said, tears and fear, disbelief and hope all in her eyes.

The words did not register then, either. Not until now -- that when he died as newborn it had to have been in her arms.

Was that why her words were so sharp when he first spoke his name? Why her fingers had trembled when she reached for him? Why she had held his hands as if to anchor him?

“Zagreus?” It’s Sisyphus who calls for him, but it’s his mother he hears.

Her voice, tight with worry when he started to shake. When the air started to churn thick with something vile that caught in his throat. The world was suddenly too vibrant and bright, too heavy and expansive, the air too rich in a way he couldn’t breathe through. Worst of all was the way his very soul twists and pulls at the seams. It wasn’t right, this wasn’t right, _he wasn’t right…_

Her hands were on him, steadying him or keeping him still he couldn’t tell. Couldn’t see. He was ill with something vile he couldn’t shake, something that seemed to pulse in his blood and writhe in his soul. She spoke to him, words he could barely parse through the pain. But still he promised her he would come back. He would come back…

But the River came, called him away. Had it been her tears he felt as the darkness claimed him?

Had he truly been so cruel as to die in her arms a second time?

“ **Zagreus.** ”

Sisyphus’s voice pulls him finally from the memories. His hands are on either side of the Prince’s face, and when his thumbs gently swipe the young man’s cheeks, they brush away tears.

Zagreus’s throat is tight and raw, though he can’t recall speaking. He drops his gaze, voice quiet and more than a little ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, though even he doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to anymore.

Would she forgive him?

Would she wait for him? No matter how long it took?

Zagreus wanted nothing more than to rush to the surface, to claw and fight his way back up from beneath the Underworld to that little field she called home, to run up to her and apologize for leaving like that -- for not being strong enough to stay.

As if he hadn’t inherited enough from his father -- his own blood tied him to a place that no longer welcomed him.

Scarred fingers lightly tuck his black bangs (hair so much like his father’s) away from his face. Sisyphus spoke with that same, warm gentleness that always seemed to soothe deeper wounds, “I think you should rest a while, Prince Z, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

He shouldn’t.

Not when the Furies could return.

He had hurry on, up through Tartarus and Asphodel, past Elysium and its vainglorious halls. He had to reach the surface. He had to _go back…_

But his hands clutched at the tattered folds of Sisyphus’s clothes.

These arms around him were warm, the man’s voice kind and welcoming. And he was so, so tired. And perhaps more than a little afraid of what he would see again on the surface -- his father’s form waiting for him in the white cold snow, his mother in the green-gold fields beyond.

“A short nap,” he murmured, head still bowed. It was easy to pretend his hands did not shake. “Only for a little while.”

“A fine idea, Your Highness.”

Those hands and voice that always welcomed and encouraged him now guided the young prince to the shadows of that too large boulder.

Zagreus settled against the warmth of Sisyphus and listened, quiet and still, as the man spoke of idle things. Stories to fill the space, to distract and soothe -- more than a few disguised memories, Zagreus was sure. But he did not ask or press. He took this kindness for what it was.

Shelter, against stone and friend like a candle from the storm.


End file.
